


Cafuné

by wickedg



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: 5 + 1, F/M, Fic Exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2013-01-07
Packaged: 2017-11-23 23:59:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/627972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickedg/pseuds/wickedg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the GoT_Exchange with the prompt: Ned/Cat - Five times Catelyn conceived (and one time she didn't)</p><p>  <i>His rough, worn fingers catch and drag through her locks.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Cafuné

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lit_chick08](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lit_chick08/gifts).



> So I didn’t go for chronological order here. I just really like the idea of snapshots, like looking through a box of photos and finding them all out of order.

_He loves her hair._  
  
He loves to brush it for her sometimes, late at night, loves to wrap it around his fingers, curl it about his fist. Ever so gentle, ever so loving, yet forceful, pulling at it, breathing it, _her_ in as their bodies move together, a tangle of limbs as he thrusts into her, as she arches her back, her neck, her voice, and he positively revels in it, her stoic lord husband.  
  
She catches him, only on occasion, looking at it, tied up in his Northern knots and braids, the way she has adapted to life in the North, becoming Lady Stark through her dress before she is able to become it in mind and body as well (though she’s never sure she’ll be of the North, not quite as much as she’d like to-too much ice and cold and the death of nature, so politely aggressive and deadly compared to her lush, green, flowing home in the South).  
  
His rough, worn fingers catch and drag through her locks as she writhes beneath him, pulling her taut like a bow, ready for release as he thrusts against her, his hot mouth kissing its way across her collar, his beard a heavy drag of friction and a slow burn she arches into.  
  
It’s his eyes-normally so stern, so silent, so cold-that pluck that string she balances precariously on. For they are singing to her, all those songs she would fantasize about as a young girl, a young woman on the cusp of marriage, and yet they sing it true.  
  
They _love_ her.  
  
He will glow when she informs him she has missed her bleeding, will laugh even, when the bump becomes more noticeable beneath her skirts. It is to be their second, but their first together, and he will brush her hair once more as she holds the babe to her breast, a tuft of Tully red barely enough for him to stroke with his smallest finger.  


* * *

  
It is something to gasp at, the way this lord husband of hers seems to look at her as if she were his prey. Though she counts herself to be observant, to take note the way his jaws clenches but a little when dealing with visitors he does not hold a certain...fondness towards, or the way his cool eyes hearten when he looks upon their children at play, but this?  
  
This is something to behold, something she has not fully noticed before, something she has only caught a glimpse of, and if not for the slight curve of his lips as he approaches her, stalks her, cornering and even trapping her against the wall of her chambers (the walls pulsate beneath her touch, like a heart, like the body that is being held against her own now), she feels almost breathless and wild.  
  
He takes up her hand, bringing it to his chest, his heart, and Cat’s sure she’s never seen her husband like this before. Throughout the years they have pursued one another, growing in their marriage, their slow and steady love, almost playful at times as they learned each other, but it has been different as of late as they begin to settle into their roles as husband and wife.  
  
Her heart does not sing at his touch that night, his fingers winding, teasing, seeking and finding. Nor does her body as he lifts her onto him, the stone wall digging into her back.  
  
They are both silent, breaths hot and heavy, panting into the night, into each other.  
  
Their eyes howl together.  


* * *

  
She’s never felt this angry before, nor this frustrated; the two bleeding into one another, and through the fog of her mind, she’s no longer sure which one came into being first.  
  
And so she sits, like a woman in her position ought.  
  
She sits, and embroiders, and she’s no idea why or _how_ she came to be this angry, but the gods saw fit for her to wake up that morning feeling so, and like the lady she is, she recalls her Septa’s lessons as a young girl, her own to Lysa, and greets the day with a demure, if not stiff, smile. It is not gentle, nor welcoming she is sure, and though she closes doors a little harder than needed, or lands her unfairly cruel gaze upon her husband’s son, by the time she makes it through supper that night she is angrily relieved that the day is soon to be over.  
  
Her son remains blessedly quiet, and she is again bitter towards herself that her tone that day has reduced her laughing, joyous boy into a quiet little child, a ghost next to his half-brother and oblivious little sister.  
  
It’s later that night that she actively seeks him out, silent and stern and tugging at his dark hair, raking her nails through his beard, and even growling a gasp as he thrusts into her, rutting her hips into his, sharply nipping at his jaw as he spills into her, groaning into the crook of her neck.  
  
She holds him tight against her, panting, and though this heat within her has yet to subside, Ned’s cooling fingers trace lazily around her waist, as if he can already feel the life storming within.  


* * *

  
Though Catelyn knows when to quash her thirst, knows when best to ask for a cool glass of water instead lest she embarrass herself, she has found herself uncaring, laughing with ease, joyous this sweet summer night.  
  
She is all giggles and smiles as he lays sweet kisses on her, cupping her face in his large hands, and through her laughter she can see his own smiling eyes, the crinkling of his face as an unaccustomed smile melts its way through his cold, serious demeanor.  
  
There is such joy and sweetness in their coupling that night, her heart beating like a drum against his own as he holds her, burying his face in her neck, twining her hair around his hand, caressing her face oh-so-gently.  
  
She rolls her hips against his and cries out, arching into him, his touch, basking in the glow of this husband of hers, so strong, and she feels a delicate bird in his arms, cared for, loved-a treasure.  


* * *

  
It has been a trying day, and a fussy one at that.  
  
Preparations for feasts had to be made, rooms to be organised, ale to be brought up from the cellar; and though she wears her best dress, its green skirts swishing about her legs, the Lady Stark cannot help but feel tired, and old-dour almost, compared to the company they keep.  
  
She is able to escape the festivities relatively early, leaving her husband to his duties to his guests, expecting them to converse long into the night.  
  
It is a surprise then, as she is carefully unfurling her hair from its traditional Southron knot (a sudden homesickness felt early that morning), that she answers the questioning knock on her door to find Ned.  
  
Not Lord Stark, nor Eddard; but just Ned.  
  
His masks have melted away from the night, and she feels her heart swoop, dip, dive at his openness with her, his earnest, hard face that she had first thought almost difficult to ever feel something for.  
  
“You abandoned your post, my lady,” he says as she steps back to let him in, already making her way back to her mirror, smiling a little as her hands reach up into her hair once again. He closes the door behind him, clicking it softly shut, and snatches up the brush she was reaching for. She is about to protest when he begins to brush it softly over her hair, palming the locks together with the bristles, a gentle tug at her scalp that she moans a little at.  
  
“I had not thought you to be unarmed.” She replies, leaning toward the warmth of his solid, firm body standing behind her, towering over her. “You seemed rather well equipped, my love.” And he hums a little, his fingers now carding through her smooth hair. Her eyes drift shut.  
  
She can feel him lean down towards her, his mouth close to her ear.  
  
“You looked more regal than our guests, my lady,” he murmurs. “I fear without you there we had little cause to celebrate.” His lips mouth against her neck, hot, warm, and she arches a little into it, aches a little for it.  
  
She rises, and taking his hand, gently leads him towards the bed, shrugging out of her night shift, letting it whisper to the floor, pooling around her feet. With a sure hand, she reaches for his doublet, and yips as he instead lifts her up and off the ground, laying her out on the bed before him as if she were a feast to behold, her hair a red fan behind her.  
  
"Ah, my Lady Stark, my Cat," he sighs, and despite herself, she can feel her body flush at his gaze. "My beautiful wife." And she sits up to assist him in removing his doublet, tunic, breeches, giggling like a girl barely a woman as he stumbles before her when trying to shuck his boots.  
  
He merely grins at her though, as if keeping secrets too wicked to share as he spread her legs, and bending over her, kisses her. Her mouth, the valley between her breasts, the belly that held their babes, the mound of red that he inhaled more than kissed, before grasping her arse and pressing his mouth into her, languidly stroking his tongue through her wet folds, supping on her as if he were the king himself.  
  
A breathy moan escapes her gasp and she arches her back, feels her legs fasten themselves around her lord husband's back, heels digging into the muscled width of his solid form beneath her, devouring her.  
  
It is comforting, the tongue, the fingers he blatantly fucks her with, racing her to her breaking point, one last spur with a flick of his tongue,  a rasp of his beard reddening the soft skin of thigh, and all there is is release, relief, a mixture of feeling as if she were flying and falling at the same time.  
  
It is not too far from falling as he settles over her, and though she is ready to cradle him in her legs, to wrap him close to her body, he tumbles them over yet again, and she finds herself straddling him, thighs quaking with effort as she lowers herself over his cock, leaning heavily over him with a pant as her hair tumbles over them like a velvet shroud.  
  
He reaches up to stroke her face. "My sweet, sweet Cat," he murmurs, and it is just the two of them, separated from the rest of the godsforsaken world by red, red everywhere.  


* * *

  
He is ungainly, and awkward in his movements, and though she does her best to bite back the wince as she feels herself split in two, she can see him frown at her through his own pleasure.  
  
“Are you alright, my lady?” He queries, stilling himself, and without hesitation she nods.  
  
“Yes, my lord,” she whispers, breathing heavy through her words. He hovers above her still though, as if not pleased by this answer, and stares at her. She tries to imagine what she looks like, tries not to look away so quickly, to concentrate on her new husband, her second betrothed Lord Stark.  
  
She stares up at the broad ceiling when he finally continues, her hands awkwardly perched upon his broad shoulders, wrapped softly around him in an attempt of comfort she had been advised new husbands would need in the wedding bed.  
  
It is like nothing she has ever felt nor imagined, as he grunts above her, stilling as he breathes hotly into the crook of her neck.  
  
He is courteous though, and quickly rolls off of her, to spare her his weight as he pulls away and she freezes at the soreness between her legs, suddenly exposed to the air around them.  
  
They lay side by side, silent, and she is almost asleep, exhaustion from the busy day before creeping up on her when she feels him shift next to her, gently curling a long red lock of hair around his finger.


End file.
